


they don't understand (what it means to me)

by lesbianbettycooper



Series: umbrella academy fics [4]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/very little comfort, POV Character of Color, Racism, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, hair angst, is that a tag? djfkhdsjkf, reginald's a crusty old white man that needs his ass beat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 06:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18005288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbettycooper/pseuds/lesbianbettycooper
Summary: All in all, the movie had been fine.But halfway through, Klaus had pointed at Janet’s hair and turned to Allison, ‘you know, those braids would look good on you,’ he’d said. Allison had grinned, eyes locked on the screen, and said ‘yeah, they would, wouldn’t they.’And that had led to Klaus and Ben trying to figure out how to do box braids in a fortnight.or; reginald is a pos (as per usual) and allison has a Moment thinking about her hair





	they don't understand (what it means to me)

**Author's Note:**

> title from don't touch my hair by solange!!!

Allison, Ben, and Klaus had watched a movie two weeks ago.

 

One with Janet Jackson and Tupac. Allison can’t really remember the name of it.

 

Klaus had swiped it from a video store and announced that it would be a crime to let Tupac Shakur go unappreciated. Allison had scoffed and rolled her eyes, though, she was smiling. And Ben had mumbled that Tupac’s time of getting _marvelled_ at was over.

 

 _That_ had sparked a whole other argument. One that prevented them from actually _starting_ the film for at least twenty more minutes.

 

All in all, the movie had been fine.

 

But halfway through, Klaus had pointed at Janet’s hair and turned to Allison, 'You know, those braids would look good on you,' he’d said. Allison had grinned, eyes locked on the screen, and said, 'yeah, they would, wouldn’t they.'

 

And that had led to Klaus and Ben trying to figure out how to do box braids in a fortnight.

 

The outcome wasn’t _nearly_ as bad as Allison had thought it would be. They looked quite nice. Vanya and Pogo and Luther and everyone, really, had told her as much.

 

But then, their father had come out of his study. His ever-present frown deepening at the sight of her, “What's going on here?” He’d bellowed from the railing above.

 

Klaus’ hands had shaken behind his back but he’d grinned up at Sir Reginald and replied, “Ben and I braided Allison’s hair. Looks pretty cool, don’t cha think?”

 

Hargreeves had looked back at her, eyes narrowed, “No.” He’d announced, “It looks classless. And completely unprofessional. Grace will take it out at once.”

 

And then he’d spun around and left. Footsteps heavy and, somehow, pointed as he returned to his office.

 

Allison hadn’t cried then, in front of her siblings and Pogo. Hadn’t cried as Grace marched her back to her bedroom.

 

She still doesn’t cry now. But her hands shake in her lap. And her eyes water (she resolutely does not think _tear up)_ and she’s taking very deep and very _long_ breaths.

 

Grace’s hands are so soft gliding across her hair. Unwinding her braids with mechanical movements. Her mother apologises every time she tugs too hard or Allison whimpers. Allison doesn’t think it really matters to Grace _why_ her daughter is sniffling. Allison doesn’t know if Grace is even _programmed_ to care about these small scale kinds of things.

 

Grace is humming something under her breath; rubbing her scalp and soothing her pain.

 

 _I’m fine,_ Allison thinks, blinking back wetness, _I’m fine. Dad’s just being a dick as usual. I Am Fine._

 

Her lip quivers, her tears - and, _Goddammit_ , they _are_ tears - bowl over, and she tucks her head between her knees.

 

“Come now, Ally Belly,” Grace tuts behind her - Allison kind of wishes she’d stopped calling her that years ago, "We need to finish getting these braids out of your hair, sweetie.”

 

Allison almost snaps at her.

 

 _Why?_ She almost yells. _Why, why, why?_

 

But, of course, Allison knows why. Sir Hargreeves said so and what daddy says, goes.

 

“Oh, Allison,” Her mother tries again, voice too sweet and too loud in her quiet room, “We _must_ keep going, dear.”

 

She sits back up, muttering an apology. Grace pats her shoulder and continues. Her pale white hands carding through Allison’s dark hair. Tugging and twisting and pulling and Allison wishes she’d just _stop_. That she’d leave Allison’s hair be. That she’d disobey father just this once. That she’d leave Allison to her classless, unprofessional hair and her tears.

 

For a moment, Allison considers whether a rumour would work on Grace. If it would work on her father and Pogo too, come to think of it.

 

Allison pushes the thought away. Instead, she wonders if she could rumour her hair straight or if she’d have to borrow Vanya’s flat iron tomorrow. She doesn’t know why she wants her hair to be flat. To be lifeless and sad like Vanya’s but she suddenly does. Suddenly needs for her hair to be soft and easily manoeuvred. For it to glitter in the Goddamned moonlight and for someone to be able to glide their hands through it with ease.

 

 _Why?_ She thinks again, _why is she stuck with her messy,_ ugly _hair?_ She bites the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood, _what did I do to deserve this?_

 

Allison’s breath catches in her throat.

 

_What did I do to deserve this?_

 

Perhaps, not what she did to deserve hair such as hers. But to deserve the treatment of it. To deserve the wrong kind of hair products. To deserve getting called classless, and dirty, and unprofessional. To deserve pitying looks from her siblings as her father humiliated her in front of them. To deserve her mother taking her braids out at her father’s command. To deserve these tears and this pain. To deserve this _hate._

 

Allison doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve _any_ of it.

 

She doesn’t understand white people's fascination with touching her hair. Doesn’t understand why Hargreeves insists that she just let them be, as if _she’s_ the one bothering _them_. And she doesn’t understand why it makes her feel sick every time.

 

Behind her, Grace needlessly exhales. She claps her hands together and announces, “All finished!”

 

Allison doesn’t reply. Only reaches up to tie her hair in a bun and then rests her head on her knees. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now, let alone _Grace. And_ Grace either doesn’t pick up on Allison’s mood or she ignores it. She unties Allison’s hair, to said girl’s frustration, and parts it instead.

 

As her mother’s fingers make one big braid down her back, Allison doesn’t quite know what to do. Grace doesn’t seem to mind, continues humming that jaunty little tune that she likes. After a moment, Grace’s fingers slow and then stop. She pushes the plait over one of Allison’s shoulders and leans down to kiss her temple.

 

“For what it’s worth,” She mutters against the young girl’s hair, “I thought you looked very nice.”

 

And then she stands and leaves Allison alone just as she’d wished.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so. i got *really* in my feelings about baby allison growing up with like... no black people in her life and no connection to her culture and was really sad about it but then i thot.......... Hm. Time To Project. and wrote this shit jkfhjdksfh
> 
> and i was gonna add one of her siblings comforting her but.... Nah :v: :pensive:
> 
> anyways! comments and kudos make me very happy!! and u can find me on tumblr @ dykeayoade


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